


i walk to the borders on my own, fall in the water just like a stone

by proserpinasacra



Series: ain't it warming you, the world goin' up in flames? [3]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Blood and Violence, Brainwashing, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hallucinations, Kidnapping, Magical Realism, Manipulation, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Past Brainwashing, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, basically everything the Bliss implies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-06-02 22:31:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19450789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/proserpinasacra/pseuds/proserpinasacra
Summary: The Henbane and its Herald twist and turn the Deputy as she struggles to keep her head above the water managing the Resistance. Faith spins circles around her; their dance grows ever more maddening until Gracie doubts her perceptions, instincts, and purpose in Hope County. Gracie is all bloodied fists to Faith’s false serenity, but not every problem can be solved with a bullet and even she isn’t certain this should end in yet another murder.





	i walk to the borders on my own, fall in the water just like a stone

Unlike what movies often displayed on huge screens in gory slow-mo, and unlike what procedural TV dramas aired every night at prime time, the average street fight in real life lasted no longer than one minute. Here in Hope County, it often didn’t even come close to that.

The Peggie turned when Gracie misstepped onto a dry twig— and Jess was fucking right, wasn’t she, it was dry as hell out here— and swung wide to bring his handgun level to her face. An arcing smack of her left hand to his wrist forcibly continued his own momentum into a smooth forward motion of her other hand gripping the top of the barrel and pointing it away from the both of them before it had a chance to meet her eyes. With a snap not unlike the twig, his index finger broke in the trigger guard. In the same movement, her left foot brought her close and personal to his torso, and a vicious upward jerk of her shin to his groin sent him bending in half. Another high knee smashed directly into his nose. Dropping his limp gun hand to wrap both her arms around his head in opposing directions, the fight ended one neat twist later. Her shoulder screamed with pain as a residual reminder of her fight with a wild cougar nine days prior, but Gracie staunchly ignored it.

He never had a chance to sound an alarm. His weak struggling hadn’t been enough to alert anyone else over the sprawling grounds of the convent, so Gracie lurked further in after summoning Peaches back to her side with a quiet click of her tongue.

The next cultists they came upon were priestesses, judging by the garb and adornments select other women in the Henbane seemed to wear. Gracie lingered to eavesdrop; even though her blood screamed to continue the fight, the jail was tactically important enough and Faith a big enough problem that she wanted any intelligence possible.

“The sinner is here.” Gracie stilled completely with wariness, but given how calmly it was stated, waited for— “Sister Faith warned me in a vision but an hour ago that the entire region is to be on alert.”

Despite quickly wracking her brain for what she’d been doing an hour or more previous that may have tipped off the cult, she came up with nothing. Gracie noted to be sneakier in the future anyways, though the open fields hardly lent themselves to it. She edged closer.

“She killed Isaac.” The other said in a quiet voice. Even at this distance Gracie could hear the stifled distress. “During her siege of the marina… I only got word this morning.”

“I’m so sorry, Abigail. We will remember him kindly when we reach New Eden, for without sacrifice first we won’t survive the Collapse.”

“Faith says the sinner doesn’t realize the chaos she causes. That she’s a monster blinded by her righteousness and rage.”

That was enough.

After a quick hand-signal for Peaches, Gracie rushed the cultist on the left, yanking by the hair to slit her throat while the cougar by her side similarly pounced for the jugular of the other. Blood splattered on her sweater, but she hardly noticed, far more concerned with gently setting down the body and slipping back into the shadows.

Her heart beat strong and even; her blood buzzed in a smooth heightened sense of power she only ever felt in the middle of a fight. Gracie was in control. It felt heady and satisfying in a way little else did.

The rest of the siege went similarly, and easily. Quick, efficient kills, more merciful than any of them deserved, and occasionally supplemented by the twang of Jess’ bow. The last cultist caught on to the incursion— by spotting a mutilated corpse or two, judging from his shouts— but his frantic dash to the alarm was cut short by an arrow to the throat. Gracie strode over and retrieved it with a sharp tug, ignoring his dying burbles, then transmitted over her borrowed radio. “I think that’s it.”

Jess tuned in to respond as Gracie stabbed her knife into the nearby alarm box that had been his goal, just for good measure. “Gotcha. Their snipers are dead. Fuckers can’t shoot for shit.”

“Alright, let’s rob them blind.”

They had a system for this. Unspoken, Peaches left with Jess to search the exterior while Gracie combed the inside of the building, on guard in case they missed someone earlier, but mostly focused on ripping ammo, weapons, and supplies from the corpses. The fractured resistance could use any help it could get, but things tended to stay better organized if she gathered it all before handing over the outpost wholesale. Gracie didn’t trust anyone to be as methodical as her, and, plus, she deserved first pickings. It was only fair, with all she did. After a second sweep of the interior, she joined Jess outside in gathering bodies and searching for goodies.

The temperature had skyrocketed shortly after the late spring snowfall, and things down near the Henbane were disgustingly muggy. She’d stripped and shoved her thermals in her bag as soon as she left the mountains, but as they worked she shrugged off her— _Jacob’s_ — sweater to tie around her waist over her tank top. _Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. Focus._ They gathered anything useful from the outpost with practiced ease, eventually reconvening at the front gate where Gracie stretched her aching shoulder and planned the next stop.

“Those’re neat stitches, Dep.” Jess said suddenly, and Gracie had to suppress her wince.

“It’s about time to yank them out.” She tried for a neutral tone, and landed as blunt and bland as ever.

“Looks like a bite.”

“Cougar.”

“You didn’t do them.” Jess’ observational skills were a blessing in combat. Less so now.

“No, an ally in the Whitetails helped me out.” Gracie didn’t think Jess would care or be suspicious enough to fact check, but she didn’t want to string too elaborate a lie by naming anyone real.

Jess tilted her head, eyeing the neat lines of stitches Jacob had threaded through Gracie’s wound. “Good thing. That’d be a bad fucking angle to stitch yourself.”

“They’ll be a bitch to take out, too.” She agreed, vaguely wishing for Armstrong to act as a buffer in their stilted dialogue. Or maybe a cultist distraction. The killing came more easily.

“I could take them out.” Jess looked distinctly uncomfortable with the notion, and Gracie, equally deterred by the thought, quickly shook her head, though it was a nice offer.

“I got it.” A long pause passed as they looked awkwardly at each other. “Thank you. For offering.”

Jess nodded.

_Christ._

Gracie didn’t have the spare emotional energy to try and salvage this conversation. There were few people that didn’t wear on her, and first and foremost of them was currently being tortured in some underground bunker by an unnervingly charismatic and sadistic lawyer.

And she couldn’t think about that right now.

She liked Jess; she really did; she liked everyone in her whole ragtag squad of traveling companions. But that didn’t remedy either her or Jess being somewhat bad at the _talking_ thing. At least in combination. Gracie nodded in return, then just— walked away.

She made a few perfunctory clerical-type radio calls. First Dutch, to let him know they’d taken the outpost, then Nick and Kim to relay her and Jess’ safety to the others, and the last to Tracey, for the same reasons as Dutch. As she spoke, she climbed up to the roof of the complex, boosting up a trellis and over the drain pipes to sit and dangle her legs off the ledge. She switched through to one last channel, then stared at the frequency number for a moment. Finally, she clicked the transmission button once, twice, then a third time.

For a minute, only silence. Long enough she thought of switching off the channel, long enough that the creeping edges of unease settled into her stomach. Bad idea from the start. Better they not speak.

Finally, Jacob’s rough voice aired tinny through the walkie.

“So you’re still close. I would have thought you’d quit the mountains after the weather turned against us.” _Us._ He paused long enough for plausible deniability to set in. It threw doubt on her suspicion that he had responded just to get intel on her location. “Where are you?”

Gracie kicked her legs where they dangled, and looked out over the expanse of fields on rolling hills that her perch provided. “Marina. Addie Drubman’s making me a Mai Tai.”

She made sure her tone was chipper enough to make her lie obvious. It wouldn’t do for him to send hunters to the marina, just in case.

“Sure you are, Gracie. Don’t bother lying to me.”

A butterfly landed on her knee. She wiggled her fingers at it. When it didn’t fly away, she settled her hand on her thigh, then watched, idly curious, as it crawled onto her thumb with a strange tickling sensation. “I’m not quite a flower.” Gracie muttered, before tuning back in to Jacob. “You stole my book.”

“It’s intel.” She imagined his cruel smirk and how he always seemed to be trying to pick her apart with his gaze.

The corner of her mouth tugged up. “But I’m a clueless city girl. I need it.”

He transmitted in time for her to hear the tail end of his breathy chuckle. A full smile pulled unbidden to her face, and she distracted herself by watching the iridescent shimmer of the butterfly's wings on her wrist. “I think you’ll manage. Torn those stitches yet?”

“Not yet. Mostly healed now, though. Thank you, doctor.” She said dryly, as she considered the logistics of cutting them out herself.

“Don’t get used to it.” He still sounded amused, but the thought hadn’t entered her mind. She’d killed some of his people less than twenty four hours after he stitched her up; he’d undoubtedly done the same. Despite the small moments of mercy, there was no common ground.

She popped the knuckles of her free hand. They were permanently roughened from years of scar buildup, and the bones had micro-fractured and rehealed enough that she hardly felt the pressure of punching anything less solid than packed sand. She forced her jaw to relax while she was at it, and finally muddled up an answer. “I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“I don’t.”

She licked her bottom lip, and stared out over the horizon until she spotted a cluster of people incoming. A peek through her binoculars revealed mismatched flannels and denim rather than cult whites.

“See you when I see you, Jacob. Watch yourself.” Almost a threat. Not quite. She switched channels before he could respond.

They sent her on errands. Because of course they did. Gracie knew the value of help and goodwill, though, so while she couldn’t ever muster a cheery doormat attitude about it, she got it all done. The unprocessed Bliss field she cut through on her way back glowed luminous white even in the decreasing light, but in its raw form it tended to only give her a throbbing headache and stuffy sinuses. It would be worth it to sleep in a bed and be up early.

For acres there was nothing but white flowers, and Peaches at her side.

As dusk settled and the sun dipped below the horizon, the temperature fell along with it. Gracie shrugged her sweater back on without much thought. When her head emerged from the thick cable-knit, Faith Seed stood before her. Gracie startled back on a quick inhale and settled to a fighting stance, hand itching for her gun. Peaches mewled and bumped her head against Gracie’s hip rather than jumping to fight too. Faith watched, and cocked her head. There was something shimmery and incorporeal about her, enough minute, unreal shifting to give her a dream-like haziness.

“You’re not real.” Gracie said finally, slowly, thoughts racing through the Bliss. Even the unrefined stuff was, _apparently,_ enough to trigger the hallucinations.

“I am.” She said in her quiet, sing-song voice, though seemed uninterested in arguing it further. Her steps as she came closer were smooth, almost floating through the swaying flowers until she stood in arm’s reach. Butterflies flit around her in a close chaos; they landed in her hair and on her shoulders before alighting, and back again. Faith’s cool clear water eyes lingered on Gracie’s sweater. Her eyebrows lifted a fraction, then settled back to that placid, smiling expression. “Someone in the Whitetails must be cold.”

“I’d have thanked the Peggie I got this from, but the rigor mortis made it a little difficult to extricate.” Gracie lied easily, not straightening up from her slouch.

Faith looked— amused, knowing, smug, maybe, but it was hard to tell between Gracie’s fuzzy head, the swarming butterflies, and Faith’s Stepford Smiling. “You speak so calmly of murder. How unsettled is your heart that you no longer feel the destruction you bring?”

“I’m not doing this because I want to.”

“You do want to. Because you don’t have to fight.” Faith touched her arm and Gracie flinched away, not before feeling the eerie chill of it. “You can give this up, be at peace. I know you’re not truly as uncaring as you act.”

“You don’t know anything about me.” Gracie grit out, dodging another condescending pat, but far more slowly than she’d have liked. Her reflexes were starting to suffer from the flowers. She trudged forward.

Faith appeared in front of her. Again.

“I do. I was like you, once. Angry, and wanting more than the world afforded me.”

“I’m angry because a _cult_ took over my whole damn town.”

“You’re angry because you’ve never felt like you belong. Not once in your whole life. I understand, I was the same until the Father found me.”

She could feel her heart thud in her chest with an erratic anger. Standing here getting psychoanalyzed by a hallucination didn’t help anyone, yet every step she dragged herself forward, Faith waited.

Faith touched her cheek, and this time she didn’t dodge it. Narrow fingers pressed cold to her face, and this close Gracie could see the differing strands of honey blonde to light brown in her hair. She grit her teeth; her own hands curled into fists. “Fuck off.”

“Your anger is a poison that leaks into everything you do. You drag your corruption through our home, making a mess of everything.”

“I’m saving people. I’m saving the people yours are torturing.”

Something lit in Faith’s eyes, and her chin tilted down as she leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratory whisper. “Does it matter? Your satisfaction comes from the control, not the purpose. I know that feeling, too.”

Gracie’s jaw began to ache from how hard she clenched it, but worse was the burning hate churning in her gut. “Yeah, I’m sure you get a lot of satisfaction from making brain-dead slaves.”

Faith’s head twitched in a light shake. Her hair shook about her, along with a flutter of butterflies. “Killing can’t fill the emptiness in you. You’re going to feel angry and broken no matter how many corpses you leave behind. It’s a fool’s errand— you’re hopeless and pitiful. And after it all, you’re still going to lose.”

With a rush of white-hot rage, Gracie yanked out her gun and fired point blank into Faith’s chest. The shot resounded across the field, and Peaches yowled and headbutt her hip again, but Faith remained unmoving before her.

She looked _disappointed_ ; her pretty face twisted to a pitying frown.

“Oh, Gracie.” The world slowed. Everything forced its way through hazy molasses to Gracie’s senses. Her heart stuttered and clenched around the few individuals that actually called her that. Not Dep, not Rook, not even the Grace that one could see on any of her records. _Gracie._ “You’re going to regret all of this.” 


End file.
